


Take Me Home (I Don't Wanna Roam No More)

by whispered_story



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Curtain Fic, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-19 20:03:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4759235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whispered_story/pseuds/whispered_story
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is hurt and Sam finds an abandoned farm in Oregon where they can stay until Dean has recovered. They never leave. [reposted, first posted on livejournal 15/4/2012]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take Me Home (I Don't Wanna Roam No More)

Dean makes a pained noise as Sam drives down the uneven road, and Sam shoots a quick, worried glance at him before focusing on the road ahead again.

Dean needs a doctor, but more important than that, they need to get the hell out of the town, away from the cops chasing them, and Sam's stomach twists unpleasantly. As much as he hates seeing Dean like this, weak and pale and breathing unevenly, getting them somewhere safe has to take priority right now. There isn't any time to get Dean fixed up properly. The best Sam has been able to do was wrap the wound on Dean's arm tightly, praying it would hold until he could stitch it up later. He's pretty sure Dean has a couple of cracked ribs as well, maybe a concussion.

"The painkillers will kick in soon," he says, not sure who he's trying to comfort. Dean grunts in agreement.

"Just drive," he mutters, words slurred, and Sam steps down on the gas.

He hates werewolves and he hates cops who think they're the bad guys when Sam and Dean probably just saved the whole goddamn town. 

He hates, most of all, seeing Dean in pain.

"It'll be okay," he says softly, to himself, and when he glaces at Dean again he finds him passed out, a sheen of sweat on his forehead and his face twisted.

+

Sam breathes a sigh of relief when he finally dares to stop for the night, the rumble of the Impala's engine cutting short and leaving them in sudden, suffocating silence. Dean is still out like a light, and Sam knows sleep is probably good for him right now, but he can't help feel a stab of worry. Dean is loud and obnoxious and larger than life, and if he's not Sam feels like there's a part of missing.

He gets out of the car and gets them a motel room, and then drags Dean out of the car. Dean wakes up, blinking at Sam and hissing at every movement. 

He passes out again while Sam stitches up his arm and tapes his ribs.

+

Dean starts running a fever the next day. He's asleep for most of the day, head resting against the window with Sam's jacket bunched up under his head.

Sam doesn't dare turn on the radio, wanting Dean to rest as much as he can. He focuses on the road, on getting them further away – he just drives, no destination in mind. 

By early afternoon, Dean starts getting restless, mumbling in his sleep, and when Sam gives him more than the cursory glaces he's been throwing at Dean all morning, he finally notices how pale and clammy Dean looks.

"Shit," Sam mutters. 

He parks at the side of the road swiftly, and reaches for Dean. His skin is too warm, and when Sam cups Dean's cheek with one hand and Dean blinks his eyes open, they're glassy and unfocused.

"Sammy," Dean mumbles.

"Hey," Sam says, voice soft. "How're you feeling?"

"Fine," Dean replies, and Sam smiles tiredly.

"Liar," he says. "I need to check out your wound. That okay?"

Dean nods and doesn't move as Sam wrestles Dean out of his flannel shirt, leaving him in a thin gray t-shirt. Dean shudders, and Sam rubs his arm absentmindedly.

"Just a minute," he promises, and peels back the bandage. The wound is red and swollen, the stitches pulled tight. It doesn't look good. 

He cleans the wound as best as he can on the side of the road, holy water and one of his t-shirts the only things he has at hand and then patches it back up and helps Dean get his shirt on again. Sam retrieves their medical kit from the trunk and sighs in relief when he finds they're still good on antibiotics. He forces a pill and half a bottle of water down Dean's throat, before telling him to rest.

"I've got you," he murmurs, and brushes his lips against Dean's clammy forehead as Dean dozes off again. "I'll take care of you."

Sam steers the Impala back onto the road. They need a place to stay, to let Dean heal and recover and to let Sam take care of him.

+

In the middle of Oregon, thirty minutes away from the next town, Sam stumbles upon an old farm by chance. He'd gotten off on a wrong turn and got lost trying to find his way back onto the interstate, and then he'd decided what the hell and just kept driving.

He's not sure what he has been looking for anyway – an empty cabin, maybe, or a motel so far away from civilization that nobody'd be there. Sam hasn't checked any news, but they left too many dead bodies behind and he's pretty sure the cops are still looking for them. 

For a brief moment, Sam misses Bobby fiercely, misses having someone to turn to, a place to go to. It's just him and Dean now, and with Dean hurt it's up to Sam to handle things. 

The farm pops up seemingly out of nowhere and Sam doesn't even need to get too close to know it's abandoned. Parts of the stables are burned down, and part of the roof of the main house is riddled with hole where shingles are missing or broken. Everything looks rundown and brittle, and a rusty sign outside declares _Bronson's Farm_ in chipped off, black letters.

To Sam, it's perfect.

"Home sweet home...for now," he says to himself, as he parks the Impala.

+

The broken roof has caused water damage in some of rooms on the second floor, but what Sam assumes must have been the old master bedroom is still okay. The furniture is old and frail, but it'll do, and Sam smiles in satisfaction when the bed holds his weight. The mattress is just as old as the rest of the house though, and Sam spreads one of their sleeping beds over it before helping Dean lie down. It's the best he can do at the moment.

The water is still running, but there's no electricity and Sam knows he will need to get it turned on. Dean is gonna need warm meals, hot showers – Sam can't afford to let Dean catch a cold, or worse, now.

Dinner is cold soup from a can, and Sam even manages to get Dean to swallow a few spoons. He redresses the wound and gives Dean more meds, and then curls up on the bed next to Dean. His hand is resting on Dean's stomach, feeling it lift and fall with each breath Dean takes, and it puts Sam to sleep before he knows it.

+

The next couple of days, Dean is mostly asleep, and it leaves Sam with nothing to do.

On the morning of the first day, Sam stays close to him. He bustles around the house, cleaning a little as best as he can, but he wanders back into Dean's room regularly to check on him, wakes Dean up for more water or meds.

"I need to leave for a bit," he says when he wakes Dean up around noon. 

Dean blinks up at him, eyes glassy from the fever. Sam strokes damp strands of hair from Dean's forehead.

"We need food. I'll try to find the next town, maybe see if I find a library to see what's up with the house...it's not exactly the perfect time to have the cops coming after us for squatting here."

"Hmm," Dean hums, eyes fluttering close. 

"Think you'll be okay for a couple of hours?" Sam asks.

"'course, Sammy," Dean mumbles.

"Okay. I promise I'll hurry up. Call me if you need me to come back," Sam says. He's not sure if Dean hears him; he looks like he's already asleep again.

Sam sighs and leans down, brushing his lips over Dean's in a soft kiss before getting up.

He leaves a note on Dean's pillow, repeating everything he just said, just in case Dean wakes up and doesn't remember the conversation.

+

The next town is a good thirty minutes away.

Sam hits the local library first – it's small, but the archive of old newspaper articles is surprisingly well-organized. It only takes a couple of hours before Sam finds what he needs; an article about a fire that broke out on the farm a few years ago. _Bronson's Farm_ has been abandoned for over 15 years, since the last owner died. William Bronson had had no wife, no kids, no relatives to inherit the farm and it's been empty ever since. Sam's not surprised, what with the state the farm is in. 

He makes a few copies, and leaves the library with the librarian cheerfully wishing him a nice day.

He hits the grocery store next, stocking up on food and a few other necessities. He buys some basic kitchenware, too – a couple of plates, a pot, a pan, some mugs. Things they'll need if they stay for a while.

And unless Dean puts up a fight, they will. Dean will need some time to recover and Sam – Sam is just tired of the whole thing. Of being on the run, of seeing Dean get hurt, about having to worry.

The farm isn't perfect, but Sam thinks they can turn it around with some repairs and a fresh coat of paint.

He'll just have to take care of some things. He'll forge a few documents before he contacts local authorities to inform them that a long-lost relative of William Bronson has stepped forward.

+

The next day, Sam starts fixing some things up while Dean is still out of it.

He starts with the kitchen, cleaning is thoroughly, and then rounds up what little usable furniture he can find from all over the house. Everything that's beyond fixing is going to come in handy as firewood for the fireplace in the living-room, Sam thinks, nodding to himself as he surveys his findings. There's a table and a few mismatched chairs they can use in the kitchen, a dresser and another, smaller table from one of the empty bedrooms that they can use in the master bedroom, a couple of shelves that just need some fixing up.

It's not much, but it's more than they had in years, and Sam thinks it'll do just fine.

+

"Think you can stomach some soup?" Sam asks, carefully setting a steaming bowl onto the small table he's put into the bedroom.

The electricity has been back on since this morning – now that _Sam Bryans_ , distant relative of William Bronson has suddenly surfaced – and it's the first warm food they've had in days. Sam really can't wait to go back into town and buy a cheap coffee maker. It'll probably the first thing Dean demands too, once he's back on is feet.

"You cooked this?" Dean asks, voice rough.

He looks a lot healthier today, after a few days of rest and meds. Color has returned to his face and the fever has finally broken.

"Yeah. Nothing fancy, but I think it'll make you feel better," Sam says, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "There are some crackers too."

"I'd rather have a burger," Dean replies, with a small smile, and Sam laughs. 

Dean is, quite obviously, on the mend.

"Once you'll feel better," he promises. 

He takes the bowl into his hand, and carefully spoons some of the soup up. He holds it out to Dean, who raises an eyebrow.

"I can feed myself," he says.

"I can see how your hands are shaking," Sam replies. "Just eat this, okay?"

Dean sighs, but he opens his mouth.

He manages to eat half the bowl of soup and a few crackers, before his eye start sliding shut.

Sam puts the food away and helps Dean lie back down. "Get some more sleep," he says.

"You staying?" Dean mumbles.

Sam thinks of the broken furniture he wanted to chop up, the shelf he wanted to fix.

"Yeah, I'm staying," he says. Dean watches him undress through half-lidded eyes, and Sam feels want stir in his stomach. He _really_ can't wait for Dean to gain some strength back.

Dean scoots aside a little when Sam gets under the sleeping-bag he's been using as a comforter, and sighs. Sam rests on hand on the small of Dean's back, kisses his forehead, and smiles when Dean tangles their legs together.

+

It takes another couple of days until Dean ventures out of the bedroom.

He sits at the table in the kitchen, watching Sam make scrambled eggs.

"So," he says when Sam sets a plate down in front of him. "Where the hell are we anyway?"

"Oregon," Sam says, and Dean makes a face.

"As good as any other place, I guess," he says. "The house is kinda a dump though, huh?"

"Farm," Sam corrects, and shrugs. "We've stayed in worse places."

"True," Dean admits. He takes a bite of the eggs and chews slowly. "We'll need some things."

He says it casually, but the look he gives Sam is pointed.

"We do," Sam agrees. "And it'll take a while to fix everything that needs fixing."

"Good thing I'm a decent craftsman," Dean says with just the hint of a smile. "What needs to be done?"

"The porch needs some new floor boards, roof needs fixing, the whole house could use a fresh coat of pain – both outside and inside," Sam says. "Most of the furniture is for shit. The backyard and fields are a mess."

Dean licks his lips. "Well, we'll start with what's really necessary and take it from there," he says.

Sam nods.

Dean and Sam Winchester, retired hunters and homeowners, he thinks. It has a surprisingly nice ring to it.

+

That afternoon, Dean insists on christening the house – because he's a dork, and doesn't care that Sam is worried about his injuries, but mostly because a few days stuck in a bed have apparently made Dean incredibly horny.

It doesn't take long before he's convinced Sam. Dean stroking himself while watching Sam, moaning softly, will do that to Sam.

Sam spreads Dean out on the bed, and settles between his legs, kneeing them apart as far as he can. 

Dean is gorgeous no matter what state he's in, but like this, his naked skin in stark contrast to the dark material of the sleeping bag, he looks almost unreal. He watches Sam through half-lidded eyes, dark lashes sweeping against his cheeks, and his pretty, pink mouth is parted, lips curling into a perfect 'o' with each breathy moan.

And god, Sam loves drawing those sounds from Dean. The way he sucks in a breath when Sam twirls his tongue over his right nipple, gasps when Sam closes his teeth around it, tugging at it. The soft "oh" he breathes out when Sam dips his tongue into Dean's bellybutton. The small whimper he makes when Sam pins him down by the hips, nuzzling the soft skin of Dean's belly, following the trail of hair leading down.

"Sammy," Dean murmurs, rocking his hips down eagerly when Sam presses a finger against Dean's hole, and he slides right into him. 

Dean takes the second and third finger just as easily, pleading for more, for deeper, for harder.

Sam slicks up his cock with lube, and hitches Dean's legs around his waist.

"This okay?" he asks, looking down at Dean's flushed face.

"I'll tell you if anything starts hurting," Dean assures him, breathless. "Come on."

Sam positions his cock against Dean's hole and presses in. He doesn't stop until he's all the way in, watches the way Dean bites down onto his lower lip.

No matter how often they do this, Sam thinks he'll never get used to this. The feeling of sliding into Dean, his cock being engulfed by tight, perfect heat, and the way Dean takes him, lets him in.

Sam draws back out almost all the way and pushes back in. He takes it slow at first, letting Dean adjust to the feeling of Sam inside him, but he gradually picks up speed, thrusting in a little harder, a little deeper. Dean feels amazing around him and Sam knows he's not going to last. Not with the way Dean is clenching his hole around him, arching into Sam wantonly. 

There's sweat trickling down Sam's back, his hair sticking to his temple damply, and he moans brokenly.

"Dean," he murmurs. "Dean. Come for me. Come on."

Dean blinks up at him. "Yeah. Yeah, Sammy. So close," he whimpers. He reaches between them, curling his fingers around his own cock. 

Sam thrusts into him harder, angling his hips to meet Dean's prostate with each thrust.

They come almost at the same time, Sam gasping out Dean's name.

+

"Porch is fixed," Dean says, wiping his hands on his jeans. There's a smudge of dirt on his cheek, and he looks happy, relaxed.

Sam drops the paint roll and smiles. "Already?"

"I told you I'm good with my hands," Dean says. He wiggles his eyebrows and Sam laughs.

"You did," he agrees, dipping down to kiss Dean once he's close enough. "Wanna help me paint?"

"Sure. Got another one of those paint thingies?"

Sam looks around, and when he can't see one he shrugs. "You take mine. I'll use a brush and do the corners."

"Hmm," Dean hums, looking at the wall Sam is almost done with. "Gonna look pretty good."

"Yeah," Sam says. "Still got a lot to do, though."

"I'll start on the roof tomorrow. And I thought maybe we should look for a new car," Dean says casually, picking up the roller from the roller tray.

"What?" 

"A second car," Dean amends. "The Impala isn't the best car for a farm. And not the most inconspicuous car to have either."

"Guess so," Sam says. "A truck would probably be best."

"Just what I was thinking," Dean says, knocking his hip against Sam as they start working side by side.

+

The house comes together piece by piece. They buy a new mattress and bedding, pick up random pieces for the kitchen, from a few more pots to an old refrigerator that rattles, but works, until they've assembled all the basics, and start slowly putting together a living-room. They get a couch and an old TV at a yard sale, which they put onto an old crate Dean finds in the barn, and Dean builds a bookshelf.

Dean comes home from the grocery store one day and loops small packets of seeds at Sam.

"What's this?" Sam asks.

"Thought you might want to grow some vegetables," Dean says. "Make use of all the land we have."

"Vegetables," Sam echoes.

Dean shrugs. "Sure. Cheaper than buying all the crap," he says. "And you got a thing for vegetables, right? I'd suggest we get a couple of cows for meat, but I'm not sure we'd know how to keep those alive. Or how to turn them into burgers and bacon."

Sam snorts. "And you'd never have the heart to kill them," he says.

Dean doesn't argue.

"I got a job, by the way," he says, absentmindedly, putting food into the fridge.

"You did?"

Dean gives Sam a look. "We need money," he says. "The garage in town was looking for someone. They agreed to take me on for a probation period."

"Oh," Sam says. "I should start looking for something too. I thought maybe the library or something, if they need someone."

He laughs softly. "It's weird, huh?" he asks.

Dean cocks his head to the side. "But not bad."

"Not bad at all," Sam says, drawing Dean into a kiss.

+

That night, Sam sleeps with Dean spooning him.

There's an alarm clock set the crack of dawn the next morning, so Dean will be at the garage bright and early, and downstairs there's a fridge stocked with food, and in their bathroom there's a hamper with laundry that needs to be done.

Dean makes a soft, snoring noise, nuzzling closer, and Sam rests his hand over Dean's. 

It's not where Sam thought he'd ever be; not since Jessica died and all his dreams of settling down went up in flames with her. 

He used to think he'd be dead before he hit thirty, or a headcase – he was both, a couple of times. He'd never thought he'd settle down, own a house with Dean, and be _normal_.

He thinks he could get used to this life, though, as long as Dean is at his side.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Johnny Cash's "Take Me Home".


End file.
